


Hope

by cheyennesunrise



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M, One Shot, Post Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:34:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1617809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheyennesunrise/pseuds/cheyennesunrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hope” is the thing with feathers -<br/>That perches in the soul -<br/>And sings the tune without the words -<br/>And never stops - at all - </p><p>Finch-centric character study. Post-finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little post-finale fic. Focuses mainly on Reese & Finch. Gen.

The pain in his shoulder is sharp and precise. It stings when he pokes at it and tingles when John presses the salve against his skin.

The area is inflamed, but Harold can’t tell if it’s from an infection or the way that John’s cool, dry fingers brush by the nape of his neck.

The pain in his heart is flat and dull. It stretches wall to wall, atrium to ventricle, filling his bloodstream with doubt and despair.

Everything is changing. They will have different names tomorrow, different lives.

Harold doesn’t know when they’ll see each other again. He reaches for John’s hand on his shoulder gives it a gentles squeeze.

Tomorrow, he will live in a world where Harold and John are acquaintances, patrons in the same book store, strangers on the street.

The monitors are powering down, and the plaintive whirr of the last generator sounds like the end of an era. The pain in his heart expands and declares mutiny against its cardiac captor. Harold bites his lip. He cannot look around. He cannot grab another Moliere or Kafka or Dickens.

The pain in his shoulder doesn’t register now, but John’s hand lingers, and suddenly it hits Harold.

They need to scatter themselves like wheat chaff on the wind; their paths must not converge.

“Harold.”

John’s voice rings through his head and stirs a familiar ache in his chest. He struggles to stand, but John is there, soothing him again and offering him a coat.

“John, I-“

His voice is not his own. Harold is crafting a new self, and the words taste strange in his mouth.

“It won’t be long, Harold. Don’t worry.” John gives him a gentle smile, and the ache disappears.

A pair of strong arms surround him, and Harold leans in. The word _goodbye_ never crosses his mind, but he says it anyway, and his voice catches.

The last monitor flickers off, and that world is lost to him.

Bear’s ears prick up, and he runs to Harold’s feet.

“Let’s go,” Harold murmurs. “Let’s go.”

Harold gathers his things and holds his new identity in his hands.

He’s changed lives so many times, so what’s another one?

Harold turns around and surveys the Library one last time. He divorces meaning from memory, piece by piece.

This place cannot matter to him. It cannot. The first editions will be replaced, but the memories will remain.

Harold curses his nostalgia and takes a step. He stumbles, but John takes him by the arm, and they walk past the glass board and shelves, and the photos of all the people they’ve saved.

He isn’t sure if he’s ready, but the new world is calling, and he cannot wait any longer.

The Library door opens, and Harold takes another step. John drops his arm, and there is a wordless exchange.

“Stay safe. Keep your head up. Hold onto hope.”

Harold knows that he will.


End file.
